


Dirty Dancing: Moscow Nights

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1950s Moscow Illya is growing bored with his life in the <i>Komsomol</i>. When his new friend, Gaby, invites him to a dance with her <i>stilyagi</i> friends, he knows he should refuse, but finds the pull of their colourful world irresistible. There, he meets Napoleon, and is instantly attracted to the other man. They don't get off to the best start but dancing and jazz bring them together...eventually.</p><p>AKA the one where Gaby and Napoleon are <i>stilyagi</i>, Illya is a little bit square, and there's a lot of dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Edit 8/2/17:** I've made a soundtrack for the fic. You can [listen to it here on Playmoss](https://playmoss.com/en/gothyringwald/playlist/dirty-dancing-moscow-nights-soundtrack). I'll update with the 8tracks link when I upload it there.
> 
> I've been sitting on this for a few months because I was going to wait until I had all the chapters done. Well, I got too impatient/anxious and just had to post the first one, now! So sorry if it takes a while for me to post the next part. I have the whole thing planned, at least, which is rare for me but I'm also working on a couple of one shots at the same time.
> 
> Everyone is Russian and in their early 20s.
> 
> Despite the title, it doesn't really follow either Dirty Dancing film, except, perhaps, in spirit. But I thought the title was cool.
> 
> Rating is for future chapters (and may yet change). Tags will be updated accordingly as the story progresses.

Crowds of people swarm around Illya, swathed in drab colours, moving through the cool Moscow evening. Cars honk and a policeman's whistle shrieks nearby, jangling Illya's already skittered nerves. Towering above most of the crowd, Illya can look over the tops of their heads for his friend, Gaby, as he approaches their meeting place on “Broadway”. She is easy to spot, hair pulled high into a tight ponytail, orange and yellow dress a beacon in the sea of grey, and Illya pushes through the crowd to get to her. 

Gaby is chatting with other brightly-dressed friends, some already dancing and gesticulating, and Illya feels awkward in his own subdued outfit as he steps closer. He sucks in a deep breath of biting air. Gaby swings around and a grin spreads over her face when she sees Illya. She waves an arm in the air and he hastens toward her. 'Illya!' She claps her hand on his arm, squeezing. 'I'm glad you made it.'

He nods and offers a small smile, and then Gaby is introducing him to the 'gang', their little crowd multiplying by the minute. Gaby's presence only seems to slightly ease their distrust of newcomers, some eyeing Illya's clothes warily, but no one taunts him or tells him to leave. Soon, they are making their way to the underground club and Illya's stomach flips at the thought of what he is doing, tonight, what he's leaving behind by going along with Gaby, and the rest of these _stilyagi_. 

Illya had met Gaby at the garage where she works, immediately enchanted by the small, spirited woman. They became fast friends and, when Gaby suggested he should come along to one of the dances she and her friends attend, he was surprised that he was only pleased, not outraged. He knows he should see Gaby and her _stilyagi_ friends as enemies of society, with their love of deviant music and American clothes, but is only intrigued by their colourful world, growing weary of his time with the _Komsomol_. It took him another few weeks to build up the courage to go. Gaby's smile when he told her he would be coming tonight was satisfied and knowing.

Illya's nerves settle in the lower light, inside, with Gaby chattering by him, the pair tucked away in a corner by a small, high table. The club is like nothing Illya has ever seen, everything dripping with decadence from the heavy drapes around the stage to the sparkling light fixtures. Polished, smooth floorboards bounce under the weight of pounding feet, and the close air vibrates with loud, hammering music. The spectacle of vibrantly clothed people spinning and twirling across the dance floor is breathtaking. Gaby points to various people, telling Illya what different dance moves are called, answering Illya when he asks about a particular song and Illya relaxes more than he had thought he would be able to here.

But then the doors burst open and Illya's heart starts racing again. The most beautiful man he has ever seen in his life strides in, wearing a garish blue plaid suit, dark hair swept back and piled high. A blinding grin graces his handsome face and a beautiful blonde has her arm linked in his, kissing his cheek. Illya's stomach churns as he watches them move into the centre of the room, everyone cheering and whooping at their arrival, and start dancing, rollicking and carefree. 

It is dizzying enough just to be here, Illya thinks, watching the couples spin and twirl, the music hot and loud and American, but to consider how he wants to be hanging off that strong arm, instead, dancing against the other man? It is too much. Still, Illya can't look away.

Gaby leans over and, following Illya's gaze, shouts over the music, 'They look great together, don't they?' Illya only nods. Gaby smiles, 'You'd think they were a couple, wouldn't you?'

Illya blinks, heart lurching, and turns to Gaby. 'Aren't they?'

Gaby shakes her head, takes a swig from the bottle dangling between her fingers. 'Once maybe. But Victoria,' and here she gestures to the tall blonde, 'has a boyfriend. Fine upstanding young man, apparently,' there is derision in her voice. 'She just comes here to dance. And Napoleon is her favourite dance partner'. 

Illya shouldn't feel relieved to know this but he does. The relief is short lived, though, because Gaby is pulling on his hand. 'Come dance!' 

At the terrified shake of his head she laughs and says 'I didn't bring you here to stand and gawp all night' and he lets himself be lead out into the pulsing throng of bodies. Gaby tries to teach him how to dance to this wild music, while Illya steals glances at the dark haired man, Napoleon, over her head the whole time.

Illya, it turns out, is not much of a jitterbugger but Gaby just laughs off his fervent apologies and yells 'So long as you don't stomp on my feet, it's fine!' and cajoles him into another dance. He suffers through two more songs until Gaby takes pity on him and leads him back off the dance floor.

'You don't have to stay here with me all night,' Illya says, embarrassed at his ungainly dancing.

Gaby waves him off. 'Don't be silly. I invited you here, after all. And I don't need to dance all night.' She nudges her shoulder against his arm. 'Anyway, you're good company'.

Illya smiles down at her, relieved he won't be left alone, and warmed by Gaby's words. 

The music thrums through Illya, vibrating into his soul. It is easy to understand how it appeals to the people in this room, so wild and free here, and Illya can feel himself falling in love with it as the rhythm seeps into him. It's exhilarating. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening, feeling the music start to transform something inside of him.

While Illya has been lost in the music, Napoleon and Victoria have danced closer to Gaby and Illya. Napoleon is only more handsome this close and Illya tries to look away but can't. Luckily, his staring seems to have gone unnoticed, Napoleon engrossed with his dancing and Gaby watching her friends. 

Gaby laughs and cheers when Victoria is flipped over Napoleon's shoulder, a flurry of skirts and lace, before landing nimbly on her feet. 'Hey, stop showing off you two!'

Victoria blows a kiss at Gaby, who pretends to catch it in her hand, pressing her palm to her cheek and sends a wink back at her friend. The last strain of the song rings out and, to Illya's alarm, Napoleon drags Victoria over to their table.

'Who's your friend?' Napoleon nods at Illya, eyebrow arched impressively. 'He looks like a square.' Napoleon's eyes drag down Illya and back up again. 'A snitch. I'm surprised no one stopped him from coming in.'

Illya pulls self-consciously at his shirt, smooths back his hair, avoiding eye contact.

Gaby crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing. 'He's here with me.' Napoleon raises his hands, palms up. 'Fine, fine.' Gaby is still glaring him down. 'But don't blame me if this place gets raided,' he adds with a wink.

Illya flushes. 'I'm in the Komsomol,' he blurts, immediately regretting his words.

Napoleon's eyebrows raise. 'Well, that's reassuring.'

Victoria digs her elbow into Napoleon's ribs, who winces and rubs his hand over the spot. 

Illya shakes his head, searching for words to smooth over his blunder, but his tongue trips over them all. 'I mean, I was. Well, I still am. But I don't...want to be. I think.'

'Illya is a good friend and I invited him here. I trust him. He's cool, OK?' Gaby intercepts Illya's babbling, much to his relief, and links an arm through his.

'OK,' Napoleon still looks unconvinced, casting a suspicious eye over Illya but says nothing else. Victoria shoves an elegant hand, long nails painted red, in front of Napoleon, extending it toward Illya. 'I'm Victoria.'

'Illya,' he replies, taking her hand and shaking it firmly.

'It's nice to meet you, Illya,' she says, directing a pointed look at Napoleon beside her.

Napoleon rolls his eyes and sticks out his own hand, 'And I'm Napoleon. Solo. Though I'm sure Gaby here has already filled you in.'

Illya takes Napoleon's hand, hopes his isn't sweaty, and feels electricity tingle through him at the touch. 'Solo?' 

'Solovich', Gaby offers, and pokes her tongue out at Napoleon, who is pouting, exaggerated.

Eyes sliding to Gaby, and back again, Napoleon says, deliberately, 'It's very nice to meet you, Illya.' Their hands are still clasped and Illya jerks his away, eliciting a strange look from the other man. The low light plays over Napoleon's features, the elegant slope of his nose, his pink lips and strong jaw.

'Uh, thanks, you too.' Illya's cheeks flame and he looks down at the floor, takes three steadying breaths, glad of the dim lighting. When he looks back up, Gaby, Victoria and Napoleon are engaged in conversation, throwing around words he doesn't understand, yet, but Illya is content just to be with them, right now. Gaby smiles up at him, her arm through his reassuring and, despite Napoleon's mistrust, he is glad he came here tonight.

A saxophone starts wailing and Victoria says, 'Oh, I love this song.' She grabs Napoleon's hand. 'Let's go dance.'

Napoleon follows Victoria onto the dance floor without glancing back, and Illya finds it impossible not to watch him move, the way his jacket pulls tight over broad shoulders, the strength of his thighs as he pushes off the floor, turning and hips swivelling. Illya swallows thickly.

A man with floppy hair, wearing a yellow check suit, approaches and asks Gaby to dance. Her eyes slide to Illya. 'Oh, I'm not sure...'

The man – Illya thinks Gaby had introduced him as Alexander – looks crestfallen and Illya waves his hand. 'Go, dance. I should go home, anyway.' 

Gaby pouts. 'Already?' 

'Yes. My mother will probably be worrying.' He shrugs.

Gaby sighs, 'OK,' and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. 'Take care.' She takes the other man's hand, moving toward the dance floor. 'I'll see you soon, right?' She calls over her shoulder and Illya nods, waving. He turns to leave, but not before he sneaks one last look at Napoleon, who is still dancing with Victoria, his face shining with sweat, handsome and glorious.

Illya sighs as he steps back into the brisk, Moscow night, turning his collar up against the weather, ears ringing, and heart pounding. He doesn't spare a thought for anyone who might see him leaving the club, mind caught up in this new whirlwind world and the handsome face of Napoleon Solo.

*

Napoleon cranes his head around Victoria as he pulls her in close, but the tall blond Gaby had introduced him to is nowhere to be seen. He ignores the tug of disappointment in his chest and focuses on dancing but loses his footing as he remembers the pretty blush that had dusted Illya's cheeks, earlier. Victoria asks if he's okay, and he flashes her his brightest smile, says 'of course', and swings her out again, petticoats swishing.

Napoleon wonders if Illya is Gaby's latest love interest or just a friend. They did seem very close, he thinks, and he has to admit they looked good together. His stomach drops. The idea of them together rankles. Only because he is looking out for Gaby, of course, doesn't trust someone as square as Illya not to snitch on them or chicken out and hurt his friend. It has nothing to do with the swoop of Illya's eyelashes or the warmth of his hand when Napoleon had held it in his own, earlier, palm still burning even as it rests on Victoria's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback welcome. Pointing out spelling mistakes is especially welcome because I self beta! And any thoughts on pacing, too. I always feel like I rush things because lots of description in between (which I love in other stories) doesn't come naturally to me and always seems to drag things on whenever I try to add it in.
> 
> 1\. Stilyagi were a youth subculture/counterculture in the 40s through early 60s in the Soviet Union. They listened to American music (swing, boogie woogie and later adopting rock 'n' roll) and styled themselves on western fashions. I first discovered the movement through the [Russian movie of the same name](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1239426/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1) from 2008 years ago at a Russian film festival. Read more [here](http://www.messynessychic.com/2015/05/25/the-stylehunters-of-soviet-russia/) and [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stilyagi%20).  
> In the film they refer to their meeting place as 'Broadway' – I'm not sure if it was just one particular place or not (I'm not familiar with Moscow, so I didn't recognise the spot in the film).  
> This isn't 100% historically accurate. I have done some research (mostly just on the Stilyaga subculture itself) but, as a fusion(ish) of the movie _Stilyagi_ with a few elements of _Dirty Dancing_ , it's really meant to be more fun than anything! (Both of the films have plenty of anachronisms).
> 
> 2\. The Komsomol was a political youth organisation in the Soviet Union. I don't know much about it, to be honest (I don't know much about Soviet era Russia at all) but in the film, _Stilyagi_ , the main character Mels seems to be a member.
> 
> 3\. The title is a play on the title for the _Dirty Dancing_ sequel, _Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights_.
> 
> 4\. I desperately wanted to have Illya say 'I carried a watermelon' but it just didn't fit. :(
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr at [gothyringwald.tumblr.com](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) (multi-fandom and not really a lot of MFU stuff at the moment, though).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got chapter two done! Huzzah!

'So, did you have fun the other night?' Gaby asks as she rolls out from under the car Illya is leaning against. She stands up, face covered in sweat and motor oil, and wipes her hands on her overalls. Morning light, streaming through the garage's open door, glints off the wrench she sets down on a pockmarked workbench.

Illya shrugs. 'Yes.' 

'You don't sound too certain.' Gaby wipes her face over with a rag, but only spreads the grease around, leaving dark smudges on her cheek and nose. Illya hides a smile and toys with the wrench, cool and heavy, turning it over in his hands. 'It was...overwhelming, I suppose.'

Gaby smiles, reassuring. 'I understand. I felt that way at first, too.' 

Illya can't imagine Gaby overwhelmed, especially with how at ease she had seemed with her colourful friends, her dancing as fluid as any of them. He winces as his own awkward attempts to mirror her moves come to mind. 'And I don't think I'm much of a dancer.' 

'You can learn.' At Illya's dubious look she adds, 'Really. I can help at the dances but with everything I'm probably too busy to teach you in between.' She spreads her hands, apologetic.

Illya nods. 'That's OK.' He had already contemplated asking Gaby to teach him but knew she was busy with work and helping her father. The dancing must be a great escape for her, he thinks, imagining how it could be a refuge for him, as well.

'Someone else might be able to help, though,' she suggests, holding out her hand for the wrench Illya is playing with and putting it in a box, taking out a smaller tool. She pops the hood of the car and fiddles with something Illya doesn't quite understand. He leans over, watching her work, the astringent scent of motor oil hitting him.

'I'll think about it.' A brief thought flitters through his mind, that he should ask Napoleon. It's absurd, especially given Napoleon's suspicious attitude toward him, but he's been aching to see the other man, again, since they met three nights ago, thinking about him constantly. Something inside of him longs to get to know him, to find out if he's more than just a handsome face and sarcastic comments. And Napoleon was the best dancer there – it only makes sense to ask him, Illya reasons, ignoring the voice that says asking Napoleon has nothing to do with sense, and everything to do with his blazing smile.

'So, will you come back?' Gaby asks, breaking him out of his reverie, her face hopeful.

'I think so.'

Gaby claps her hands and grins. Illya wonders if he will be brave enough to go back, though – everyone there had been so vibrant, so wild and free. Illya, on the other hand, felt far from those things. He tugs at his jacket. Gaby's eyes drift to his hands and she says, 'I know where you can get some clothes that might make you feel less conspicuous.' She fishes about for a pen and scrap of paper, writing something down. She taps the pen against her lips. 'Well, less conspicuous in our crowd.'

Illya takes the paper from Gaby – there are directions on where to go, what to say, who to look for – and says, 'I'm not sure. I don't know if that style would suit me.' 

Gaby narrows her eyes, thoughtfully, as she looks Illya over. 'I think you'd look very handsome.'

Illya ducks his head. 'Thank-you.' Gaby laughs and claps him on the arm, again, before turning back to her work. 

Illya stays a little longer, watching Gaby tinker, listening to her chatter as she explains what she is doing to the motor, but it is lost on him. He is content to stay and listen, though, and buoyed by Gaby's confidence, Illya decides he will get new clothes and ask Napoleon Solo to teach him to dance, today, before he loses his nerve.

*

The sun is sinking into the horizon as Napoleon makes his way home. Spindly spires, silhouetted against the darkening sky, create a stark contrast to the bloody hues of sunset. He pulls his coat tighter against the chill air, leather folio, in which his newly acquired records are stashed, tucked safely under one arm.

Footsteps clatter behind him, but he pays them no mind, as he is rarely alone on this route. He is eager to get home and listen to his new music, wondering which he will put on first. Maybe the new Charlie Parker, he thinks. Moments later a strong hand lands on his arm and he spins around, heart thudding at the sudden intrusion.

'Illya?' His heart doesn't slow down, though it is beating fast for an entirely different reason, now.

Illya slips his hands into his pockets. 'Sorry if I startled you.'

'Creeping up on people will have that affect,' Napoleon says. Illya, at least, has the grace to look sheepish. 'What are- were you following me?'

'A little.'

'You either were or you weren't.' Napoleon settles a hand on his hip, raises an eyebrow.

'Well, I only followed you a little way – I saw you and ran to catch up with you.' Illya points, as if to indicate the spot from where he had seen Napoleon.

A passer by pushes past them, so Napoleon ushers them into an alcove, out of the way. 'Why?'

Illya fiddles with the buttons of his coat and sucks in a deep breath. 'I want to dance like you.'

Of all the things Illya could have said, Napoleon did not expect that. 'OK?'

'And I want you to teach me. Please.' Illya shifts from one foot to the other, that pretty blush Napoleon can't stop thinking about dusting his cheeks, even more attractive in the twilight. 

For one moment, Napoleon considers saying yes, but the idea is ridiculous. Illya may be Gaby's friend – Gaby's incredibly handsome friend – and it's more than likely he only wants to surprise and impress Gaby, but Napoleon is wary. 'Look, I can't teach you to dance.'

Illya sags, mouth drooping, and Napoleon nearly changes his mind. 'Why not?'

'How do I know you won't run and tell your little Komsomol comrades?'

Illya's eyes flash. 'You're Gaby's friend. I wouldn't do that.'

'Hmmm.' Napoleon looks Illya over, much like he had the first night they met. His clothes are plain, square. Illya appears too much the perfect Soviet. Then again, didn't they all, before they fell in love with jazz? 

Napoleon settles for a jibe. 'Well, you're too uptight for jazz, _daddy-o_.'

Illya's blush deepens and he scowls. 'Sorry I bothered you.' He turns and walks away.

Guilt tugs at Napoleon as he eyes the slump of Illya's shoulders and he finds himself moving toward the other man before he realises what he's doing.

'I'm going to regret this,' Napoleon mutters to himself as he catches up with Illya, grabbing the taller man's arm.

'I already said I wouldn't tell anyone,' Illya says, turning but not meeting Napoleon's eyes.

'No, I...changed my mind.' 

'Really?' Illya's face brightens, boyish and hopeful.

Napoleon's stomach gives a traitorous flip. 'Yes. But don't make me regret it.' 

*

The light is dwindling when they reach Napoleon's house, the sky now a dark mauve. The windows of the neighbouring houses glow yellow. Illya stands aside, nerves and excitement raging inside him, as Napoleon opens the door with one hand, gesturing Illya inside with the other. Napoleon takes his coat, hangs it on a hook by the door and Illya follows him into an airy living room, with dark hardwood floors.

'Do you live here alone?' Illya turns on the spot, taking in the room. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, bursting with books Illya itches to pore over. Several photographs, in simple frames, hang above an overstuffed sofa and a polished coffee table. A large window, hung with dark curtains, looks over a dining table sitting on a worn but expensive rug. It's homey and welcoming.

Napoleon eyes the room, then looks at Illya. 'Yes, my parents left it to me.'

Illya tries to imagine having all this space to himself. He has to share two small rooms with his mother, and a kitchen and bathroom with the rest of the families in the communal apartment. Still, he thinks, it could be worse, if he had a larger family like so many of the others, there. 

In the corner of the room is a phonograph and Napoleon heads for it, setting the folio he had been carrying on a small mahogany table. He switches on a floor lamp and unzips the folio, producing a stack of x-rays, cut into circles. 

Illya knows that they are bootleg records, but has never actually seen any up close. Curiosity spurs him across the room and he peers over Napoleon's shoulder at the transparent film. He jerks back when Napoleon turns around but Napoleon doesn't seem to have noticed he was standing so close.

'Any preference?' Napoleon asks.

Illya shrugs and Napoleon rolls his eyes. 'Of course not.' He shuffles the stack in his hands, holds one then another up to the light, before he finds whatever it is he's looking for and sets one, a ghostly ribcage spread across it, on the phonograph.

A jaunty piano rings out of the speaker, a scratchy saxophone and reedy voice filling the room, thrilling through Illya, and he closes his eyes letting it wash over him. _How did I live so long without this?_ He wonders. 

Napoleon clears his throat and Illya's eyes snap open. 'Ready to start?'

'Yes', Illya says. Napoleon parts his legs and bends his knees. 'Now, stand like this, with the weight more on the balls of your feet.' Illya does as he's told and then Napoleon is showing him when to start moving, the basic steps – one, two, three and four – and Illya bites his lip in concentration.

He tries to follow what Napoleon is doing but keeps getting distracted by Napoleon's profile, the line of his jaw, or the elegant bob of his Adam's apple as he talks, and finds he is more clumsy and stiff than usual, steps heavy and out of time.

Illya looks up at a sigh from the other man, Napoleon's critical eye assessing his clomping attempts at mirroring his own fluid movements. 'The steps aren't enough...feel the music.'

Illya stops and frowns.

'Look, this music is hot. It makes you want to jump. Swing, boogie woogie, rock 'n' roll, whatever it is – it should touch your soul.' Napoleon pauses, fists a hand over his heart. 'And that's where the dancing comes from. It's free, like the music. You just look like you're marching.'

Heat floods Illya's face, yet again. 'How hard is it? Two stomps, three slaps.' He keeps his tone light and teasing, but his stomach churns.

Napoleon glares, but doesn't respond, bites out the words, 'I'll try a slower song, shall I?'

Illya tries the steps once more, as Napoleon turns to change the record, finding it easier without Napoleon watching him, but his brain is still too preoccupied with the other man to truly feel the rhythm.

Firm hands grab his hips, twisting them, and Illya jerks away, hands batting at Napoleon. 'What are you doing?' The other man's touch is electrifying. Illya doesn't want to think how Napoleon may react if he knew how it affects him.

Napoleon huffs. 'Adjusting. You're not standing right.'

Illya pushes Napoleon's hands away as the other man reaches out, again. 'I can do it myself.'

Napoleon rolls his eyes and lifts up his hands. 'Fine.' Illya moves into a different position and Napoleon nods, seemingly satisfied.

They go over the moves again, and again, for the next hour, barely talking except for Napoleon counting or to point out where Illya has gone wrong. Their feet softly thud and shuffle on the smooth floorboards.

Illya is growing weary, of dancing, of Napoleon's sarcastic comments, of the way his heart still beats fast each time they make eye contact or they brush against each other. He is tense, hands curled into trembling fists at his sides, making it impossible to relax into the smooth rhythm of the dance. 

Beside him, Napoleon grunts as Illya trips, crashing into the other man, who catches him with strong arms. Illya longs to remain in the embrace, but rights himself and murmurs an apology. 

Napoleon throws his hands in the air. 'I give up, you can't do it. You cannot do it.'

Illya narrows his eyes and jabs an accusatory finger at the other man. 'Maybe it's you who cannot teach!'

Napoleon crosses his arms over his chest, cocks a hip. 'You know, I don't have to do this. I have far better things I could be doing right now.'

Heat floods Illya's face and he snaps. 'So do I.' He turns on his heel and storms out, grabbing his coat fiercely off the hook on the way. Napoleon doesn't call after him.

The chill air does nothing to cool his anger and embarrassment. He seethes the whole way home, startling his neighbours when he stomps through the hallway and worrying his mother who calls out to him – 'Illyusha, are you all right?' 'I'm fine, mama.' - as he retreats into his cramped bedroom. The bed squeaks in protest as he sits heavily. He was a fool to go to Napoleon and he won't make that mistake again. 

Shame surges through him as he eyes the bundle containing the clothes and shoes he'd bought at Gaby's suggestion earlier that day. If they hadn't cost so much, he would get rid of them. Instead, he shoves them under his bed, out of sight, and tries to push the thought of Napoleon – beautiful and infuriating - out of his mind with them.

*

Moonlight glints off the glass of vodka in Napoleon's hand as he stands by his window, other hand shoved in the pocket of his robe. Stars peak over the roofs of his neighbours' homes, twinkling merrily. Napoleon scowls at them. His stomach growls and he stifles a yawn but he is too worn out for supper, too wound up for bed, agitated since Illya left several hours earlier.

The cool glass soothes his brow as he leans forward. He reasons with himself as he has been all night – he was doing Illya a favour, after all, and if he couldn't take some criticism, how could he learn? - but to no avail. Napoleon knows he was too hard on the other man, frustrated that he couldn't follow Napoleon's instructions but more frustrated with himself for feeling like a giddy teenager with a crush, heart racing and palms sweating the whole time. His mood only worsens as he thinks of how Gaby will react, angry on behalf of her friend – or more than friend, Napoleon thinks, stomach sinking – and he groans.

He moves away from the window and flops onto the couch. The vodka burns his throat, his empty stomach. It feels good. He sighs and hopes the vodka will drown the guilt roiling within him but it doesn't. The only solution is to make amends with Illya. Not only to keep the peace with Gaby but because the thought of Illya being hurt, especially by something he said or did, sits as uneasily within him as the vodka does in his empty stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Very happy for people to point out spelling errors as I self beta as well as if the tone is inconsistent from the first chapter. 
> 
> Writing dancing lessons is actually quite tricky! No montage scenes to speed through them in prose. Napoleon is teaching Illya how to [lindy hop](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lindy_Hop), because it's the only type of dance done to jazz that I know well (though I've not done it in years) and they looked like they were doing that, or a variation of it, in the movie Stilyagi, anyway.
> 
> Stilyagi actually listened to records made from x-rays! They look super cool. Here's some info on them for anyone interested:  
> -[Soviets Bootlegged Western Pop Music on Discarded X-Rays: Hear Original Audio Samples](http://www.openculture.com/2014/06/soviet-hipsters-bootlegged-western-pop-music-on-discarded-x-rays.html)  
> -[When Rock Was Banned in the Soviet Union, Teens Took to Bootlegged Recordings on X-Rays](http://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/soviet-hipsters-bootlegged-banned-music-bone-records-180957505/#ozRIh9P4jMFHVFmS.99)  
> -[Jazz on Bones: X-Ray Sound Recordings](http://kk.org/streetuse/jazz-on-bones-xray-sound-recor-1/)  
> -[How Soviet Hipsters Saved Rock 'N' Roll With X-Ray Records](http://www.fastcodesign.com/3032206/how-soviet-hipsters-saved-rock-n-roll-with-x-ray-records/3)  
> -[Soviet Scenesters Used X-Rays to Record Their Rock and Roll](http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/soviet-scenesters-used-xrays-to-record-their-rock-and-roll)
> 
> EDIT (23/11/16): I've added a few little phrases and sentences in that I thought clarified some things that I hadn't intended to be unclear. It doesn't change the narrative that much, in my opinion, but here's what was added:
> 
> thinking about him constantly  
> ignoring the voice that says asking Napoleon has nothing to do with sense, and everything to do with his blazing smile.  
> nerves and excitement raging inside him,  
> Illya doesn't want to think how Napoleon may react if he knew how it affects him.  
> longs to remain in the embrace, but  
> beautiful and infuriating
> 
> (I've not indicated where I added them because I thought an asterisk or something would interrupt the flow of the story).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like my update schedule might be around once a month, the way I'm going. My original plan was for five chapters but I realised it needs to be longer. At this point I'm thinking around 6 or 7 chapters.
> 
> Self-beta'd.

Napoleon checks his watch. It's been five minutes since he last checked, and half an hour since he's been leaning against the stone wall, cold seeping through his jacket and shirt, hoping he'll run into Illya. He sighs. His first thought had been to go to Gaby, ask where Illya lives, but then he would have to explain the lessons, his harsh words and, maybe, everything else. Gaby is too shrewd, sometimes, and Napoleon isn't ready to explain why apologising to Illya is so important to him. Instead, he decided to to drop by where the Komsomol meets and hope for the best. In retrospect, not the most solid plan, but he itches with the need to make amends.

Dour faces cast him sidelong glances, but he just stares back, arms crossed over his chest, one leg resting casually on the other. Most quickly look away but a few keep his gaze, their disapproval clear. Napoleon checks his watch, again, and is about to give up when he spots his quarry. Illya moves through the crowd with grace and Napoleon wonders why it doesn't translate to his dancing. Perhaps, he thinks, Illya is relaxed, now, at ease in familiar surroundings, but there is still tension in his straight spine and long strides. 

Napoleon watches him a moment longer then shakes himself. 'Illya!'

Illya turns around. His eyes land on Napoleon, and he ducks his head, quickens his pace. Not to be deterred, Napoleon pushes off the wall, and hastens to fall into step with the other man.

'What do you want?' Illya asks, not looking at Napoleon.

'Well, hello to you, too.' Napoleon's tone is lighter than he feels, guilt still heavy in his stomach.

'I am not in the mood to be be chastised, again, so if you'll excuse me.' Illya nods in Napoleon's direction and walks away, faster still. 

Napoleon follows, trotting behind Illya. 'I wanted to apologise.'

Illya stops and eyes him warily, clutching the strap of his satchel. He stays silent.

Napoleon feels wrong footed and unprepared. He scratches the back of his neck. 'Uh, I don't actually do this often.'

'That is not surprising.' Illya fixes him with a steely gaze.

Napoleon's eyes narrow and he has to swallow a harsh comeback. How does Illya get under his skin so easily? 'Look. I'm sorry I was hard on you.' He sucks in a deep breath and forces himself to go on. 'I-if you want, I'm free, now. We could try again?'

Illya shifts his satchel and looks off to the side. 'I don't know.'

Napoleon deflates. 'Of course. I don't blame you.'

'I mean, maybe it's not for me.' Illya huffs and Napoleon can tell he's been thinking this over.

A cool wind blows past them, and Napoleon shivers, stepping closer to the other man. 'If you love the music then it's for you, Illya. For everyone.'

Illya looks at him, then, and he nods, slowly. 'OK.' A weight lifts from Napoleon's chest and a smile stretches across his face. 

*

Hot jazz crackles through the phonograph speakers as Napoleon drops the needle onto the x-ray record. He relishes the tune for a moment, a smile pulling at his lips, then crosses to Illya and reaches for his hands. 

Illya folds his arms and steps back. 'Why do we need to hold hands?' he asks, brow furrowed.

Napoleon's face warms at Illya's phrasing. 'I'm teaching you to dance.'

Illya stares at him, face blank, so Napoleon says, 'You need to practice with a partner.'

'With you?' Illya's eyebrows raise, as though he had truly not considered the idea.

Napoleon spreads his arms, looking around the room pointedly. 'I don't see anyone else here.'

'Have you got a broom?' Illya asks, sardonic.

Napoleon feels irritation rise but when he looks up he sees an amused twinkle in Illya's eye and feels a smile pull at his lips despite himself. 'No, sorry, you'll just have to put up with me.'

'Very well', says Illya, still smirking and holds out his hands. There is a slight tremble in them as Napoleon takes them in his own and he could swear he hears Illya's breath catch, but brushes it off as a crackle in the record. 

Illya's arm is wrapped around his back, a hot, comforting weight, hand on Napoleon's waist. He rests his own hand on Illya's shoulder blade, careful to keep his grip light. Their hips touch, Napoleon's skin burning beneath his clothes, the space between their bodies forming a 'v'. 

'Like this.' He takes Illya's free hand and rests his atop, turning them so the back of Illya's is parallel to the floor. 

This close, Napoleon has to look up to see Illya's face, a strange feeling for someone who is used to being taller than most around him. But it is Illya's hand on his waist, the weight of his other hand clasped in his own, that makes Napoleon shift uneasily. He had underestimated the effect being like this, touching so warm and close, would have on him. Napoleon swallows heavily as his gaze drifts to Illya's mouth, a fleeting image in his mind of their lips touching. His heart thumps harder.

He realises he's been standing silently, in Illya's embrace, for just a little too long, when Illya starts to squirm. Napoleon's gaze snaps up to Illya's eyes, sees the other man looking at him expectantly, a faint blush staining his cheeks. He clears his throat. 'You're holding on too tight,' he blurts. 

'Sorry.'

'That's better.' Illya's hand is now a firm, warm weight against his waist. 'Geez, you're strong.' Illya gives him a strange look and Napoleon blinks. 'Right, let's get started. Do you remember the basic steps?'

'Yes'.

'Here we go.' Napoleon counts one, two, three and four, and he and Illya move in time with the music.

After a few songs, it feels like Illya is finally getting it, though he is still a little stiff and awkward, occasionally falling out of time.

'Now light on your feet,' Napoleon reminds and a moment later Illya steps on Napoleon's foot. 'Light on _your feet_.' Napoleon curses. He sucks in a deep breath, shaking his foot, as Illya apologises, face red, arms hugged around himself.

'It's fine, that was a lot better.' Napoleon hopes he sounds reassuring through gritted teeth. 'But you're still a little tense.'

Scowling, Illya hugs himself tighter, as Napoleon adds, 'You're probably just nervous.'

'Why would I be nervous?' Illya asks, voice sounding strange. 

The needle hisses over the end of the record and Napoleon crosses to lift it up. He shrugs. 'You don't want to get it wrong, or you want to impress someone, like Gaby...' he trails off when Illya frowns but he can't discern the reason behind it. 

Napoleon waves his hand. 'But it's like dancing with a cardboard cut-out.' He winces. 'Just meant...well, try to relax.'

'And how will calling me cardboard help?' Illya snaps.

Napoleon is about to snap back but realises Illya is right, he was unfair. 'Sorry.' He sighs as Illya shrugs, hands now in his pockets, gaze not quite meeting Napoleon's. 

'Why don't we take a break.' Napoleon moves to his bar when Illya nods, and gestures at the array of bottles. 'Would you like a drink?'

'Just water.'

Napoleon raises an eyebrow and Illya blushes. He would feel bad if Illya didn't blush so prettily. 'Just water,' Napoleon repeats.

*

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Illya reaches out to take the glass of water from Napoleon, their fingers brushing. He wonders if Napoleon feels the spark as they touch but Napoleon makes no sign he felt anything as he sits, reclining leisurely, crossing one leg over the other. For a brief moment, Illya imagines scooting closer to him.

'Thank-you for the lessons,' Illya says, fiddling with the glass of water before taking a large gulp. The afternoon still feels like a dazed dream to Illya, who could hardly believe that Napoleon had come to apologise, let alone wanted to keep teaching him. His stomach had done some rather complicated somersaults on the way to the other man's house.

Neck flushed at the memory, he casts a sidelong glance at Napoleon who shrugs, turning the tumbler in his own hand. 'It's fine. I'm not sure I've been the best teacher.'

There seems to be a pink tinge to Napoleon's cheeks, but Napoleon doesn't seem the kind to blush easily. Illya huffs out a laugh. 'I'm not the easiest student, either.'

Napoleon flashes him a breathtaking grin and nudges his calf with the toe of his shoe. 'You did really well, today.' Illya ducks his head and murmurs 'thanks'. He had felt more confident in his dancing, at ease in a way he hadn't felt the previous day, though Napoleon in his arms made his limbs feel like jelly. 

Illya smiles as he savours the memory, relaxes a little against the sofa. The atmosphere between the two is no longer edged with irritation - for the time being, at least - and they sit and make small talk. 

Illya has never been the loquacious sort but something inside of him aches for Napoleon to know him, and to know the other man as well. He finds himself telling Napoleon of his life with awkward, stumbling words, Napoleon occasionally asking him a question. He talks about his mother, his fast friendship with Gaby and how she had convinced him to come along to the dance, but carefully skirts around his time in the Komsomol. 

Napoleon, in turn, tells Illya how he lost his parents and inherited this house from them, about his work at the university and how he had fallen into the world of jazz when he was seventeen. He speaks with an eloquence Illya cannot find, today, with his own anxious tongue.

The conversation is both pleasant and torturous. Pleasant because Napoleon has a wicked sense of humour, because he is beautiful and smart, torturous for the same reasons. Illya is so lost in their discussion, in Napoleon's eyes and his laugh as he recounts a humorous anecdote, he doesn't realise how much time has passed.

As Napoleon stands to pour himself another drink, Illya's eyes drift to the clock by the door. He jumps to his feet. 'I have to leave.'

Napoleon startles and his shoulders slump as he turns around. 'Oh, OK.'

'Sorry. I'm late for work.' Illya rocks back on his heels and nods in the direction of the clock.

Napoleon's eyes follow the movement and his eyebrows raise. 'I didn't realise it'd gotten so late.'

Illya makes a small noise of agreement and starts towards the door, Napoleon walking beside him. 'What do you do? For work, I mean.'

'Move boxes at the docks.' Illya ducks his head.

Napoleon 'hmm's and they come to a stop by the door. It creaks open under Napoleon's hand but neither of them move. Illya feels a little awkward, as he always does when it's time to leave someone's company, especially when it's someone he wants to spend more time with. He feels the foolish urge to hug the other man but pushes it down. Instead, he sticks out his hand, which Napoleon takes in his, shakes firmly, holds maybe a little longer than is necessary.

Illya reluctantly slips his hand free. 'Well, I'll see you,' he says, stepping outside, the brisk air hitting him, and clearing his head of foolish notions.

'Of course,' says Napoleon. 'If you need any more help, just let me know.'

Illya nods and turns to walk off. 'Goodbye, Napoleon,' he says, over his shoulder. Napoleon is still standing in the door, leaning on the frame, and he waves, lips quirked in a crooked smile. Illya's heart skips and it takes all his will to turn around and walk away.

*

There is a bounce in Illya's step as he leaves work and he feels lighter than he has in days. He looks forward to joining Gaby and Napoleon at another dance, maybe even wearing the clothes he'd bought at Gaby's encouragement. The buzz lasts until he is a few blocks from home and runs into someone he had not wanted to see: Oleg, the head of his Komsomol chapter. He is standing with some of Illya's other Komsomol comrades but breaks away when he spots Illya.

He saunters over, and leaves a just-this-side-of-comfortable space between them. 'Hello, Illya.'

Illya inclines his head. 'Oleg.'

'You weren't at the meeting.' Oleg regards him with a scrutinising gaze.

'I had to work. Need the extra money.' Illya says, leaving the implication 'you know how it is' hanging between them.

Oleg nods. 'I'm just glad you are well.'

They stand in silence. Illya feels increasingly restless, Oleg's penetrating gaze making Illya wonder if Oleg knows where he's been and what he's done.

'I should go,' Illya says. 'My mother...' he trails off, letting Oleg decide what he might mean.

'Of course.' Oleg steps aside, sweeps his hand through the air, as if gesturing Illya to pass by. 'I'll see you tomorrow, though?'

Illya hums, non-committal, and walks off, hands tucked deep into his pockets. He chances a glance behind him but Oleg, along with everyone else, is gone.

Their conversation may have been brief, but Illya is rattled nonetheless. The draw to the stilyagi, their world filled with jazz and bright clothes, to Napoleon and to Gaby's friendship is so strong. But the fear of getting caught still lingers, brought to the surface by this run-in with Oleg.

For the second time this week, his mother is concerned when he walks in, shoulders slumped under a heavy weight. The lightness he'd felt after Napoleon's apology, the joy at dancing and talking with the other man, has evaporated. 

'What's the matter, Illyusha? Lately, you come home either sad or angry.'

'Nothing. I'm fine, mama.' He places a kiss on his mother's head, hand on her shoulder. 'Just tired.'

His mother rests her hand over his. 'Eat your dinner and get some rest.'

'Yes, mama,' he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. His mother's stew and her smile warm him, again, and he forgets about Oleg and his worries for just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> I decided to keep info on the Komsomol vague because I don't know enough (and haven't done enough research, yet) to be more specific.
> 
> Feel free to come chat on tumblr (I'm mostly reblogging Star Trek TOS stuff right now): <http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/>
> 
> EDIT (23/11/2016): I've gone back over this chapter and tightened up the prose, changed a few things that I was unhappy with and just neatened it up in general. The plot points are essentially the same (there is a little more of Illya's feelings in this version, I think) but I've changed too many sentences to indicate which ones. I've kept copies of the previous chapter that was up, though, if anyone preferred that. I'm not sure if changing fic once it's published is the 'done thing' but I was really unhappy with this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for another update! I'd planned to post this much earlier but I've had a really rough few months, which made writing even more excruciating than usual. But, better late than never, no?
> 
> This is also my longest chapter, yet, so hopefully that makes up for the delay (and that there isn't too much going on here).
> 
> Un-beta'd, as usual, because I'm impatient :)

A small mirror hangs inside the wardrobe Illya and his mother share, almost big enough for Illya to see his whole face at once, but not quite. Usually, Illya has little need for it but tonight its size is proving frustrating for his task. 

He dips his comb into the glass of sugared water and gingerly runs it along the top of his hair, coiffed into a pomp. Illya wipes at a spot of dust, then studies his reflection. He ignores the small part of him that hopes he will impress Napoleon, and ducks down to cast a scrutinising eye over his efforts. His hair is not quite as impressive as some of the other _stilyagi_ boys manage, but it will do well enough. 

As he's wrangling a stray hair, his mother comes in and his throat tightens. Will she be angry, or disgusted, with his clothes?

She brushes past him, hanging her coat up in the wardrobe. 'Going out, tonight, Illyusha?'

Illya hums his assent and then focuses his attention on his tie, hoping she doesn't ask where he's going, though his clothes must give him away.

'I like the outfit.' She eyes his shepherd's check drainpipe trousers, the green and yellow dots on his jacket, almost matching his pants, and the hot pink shirt underneath. 'You know, boys in my village used to dress up to scare girls, too.'

Illya frowns down at his clothes but when he looks up he sees a mischievous twinkle in his mother's eye and knows she is only teasing. She smiles up at him as she fixes his tie and says, 'You look very handsome. It's nice to see some colour in this dreary place.'

'Thank-you, mama.' He places a kiss on her forehead, glad of her approval.

'Now, go and have fun,' she says, practically pushing him out the door before his nerves can make him reconsider.

*

Suspicious eyes and scandalised whispers follow Illya down the dimly lit hall of the communal apartment. He clenches his hands into fists, bites the inside of his cheek and steps outside, into the concrete courtyard where the children play. They all stop and gawp, then follow after his long strides chanting ' _stilyaga, stilyaga_ ', taunting. Illya turns and lays his best glare on them. They scatter, giggling, but their chant still echoes along the stone walls.

The bus ride is little better with more mutters and stares - one brave soul yells that he's a disgrace as he disembarks, though their companion tuts and says 'he's young, let him have his fun' – but Illya ignores them and swallows thickly, his stomach fluttering as he makes his way to the dance.

*

The air inside the old warehouse is pulsating, making the walls shake, the wild beat of the music practically tangible. It vibrates against Illya's skin, makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. It's thrilling. At one end of the room a band wields black market instruments with zeal, whipping dancing couples into a frenzy. Near the door is a makeshift bar, which people mill around, chatting and drinking. A few tables and chairs are scattered through the room, but most of the space is reserved for dancing.

Sweat and sawdust hit Illya as he takes a deep breath, his palms damp where they rest against his new trousers. He scans the flashy crowd for Gaby, and spots her in a green polka dot dress, chatting with another girl in a mauve skirt and orange blouse. They laugh and smile, leaning into each other to be heard over the music. Illya makes his way to them, edging around the dancers, narrowly avoiding a wayward arm to the head, swirling skirts brushing his legs. 

The other girl leaves before he gets there, squeezing past Illya on her way, winking up at him. Illya, startled, only manages to blink at her. 

Gaby looks up to wave her friend off, eyes boggling as her gaze lands on Illya. A delighted grin spreads over her face. 'Illya! You look wonderful.'

'Thank-you,' Illya says, head ducked. He feels good in these new clothes.

Across the room, Napoleon dances with Victoria, the rickety floor lamp nearby seeming to shine just for him, illuminating his figure, which moves with grace. Illya's heart leaps and his mouth feels impossibly dry. 

He clears his throat against a sigh that threatens to escape and tears his gaze away, looking back to Gaby. 'Would you like to dance?'

'Of course.' Gaby takes Illya's hand, already pulling him toward the dancefloor. 

A new song starts, thumping bass and twanging guitar joined by a howling saxophone, and Illya takes Gaby in his arms, only to send her out swinging again a few beats later. Their feet swivel against the dusty floors, resonating with jazz. Gaby is surprised, but delighted, at the improvement in Illya's dancing.

'Have you been taking lessons or were you holding out on me?' Gaby asks, breathless, as they retreat to a table in the corner. Illya shrugs, non-committal, but is pleased nonetheless.

Gaby chuckles. 'Ah, I see. Trying to cultivate some mystery?'

Illya thinks of his lessons with Napoleon, spinning the other man around his living room, while jazz floats in the air. The tentative friendship blooming between them. The thrill he gets holding Napoleon as they dance, or even just talking to him. He wants to hold these things tight to himself, not because of what Gaby might say, but because it feels good to have this for his own. 

A wistful smile tugs at his lips and he says, 'Something like that.' 

*

Napoleon bows with exaggerated grace to the friend who had just cut in on him and Victoria, glad of the chance to rest and mingle. His gaze drifts over the crowd, looking for someone to talk with, until it lands on a familiar visage, sending a jolt through his stomach.

In the corner of the room stands Illya, dressed, surprisingly, in _stilyagi_ garb. Shadows darken his hair, obscure his face a little, but he's still undeniably handsome. Breathtaking, Napoleon thinks, as he pushes through the middle of the dancefloor, eyes never leaving Illya's face as he makes his way to the other man. 

Illya startles as Napoleon leans in close and says, 'That tie doesn't work with that shirt.'

Illya scowls, crosses his arms defensively, and Napoleon chuckles, nudging his shoulder against Illya's. 'Only kidding. I dig the new threads.' 

Napoleon looks down, tries not to let his eyes linger on Illya's strong thighs, his long fingers curled around his biceps, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. Heat tingles up his throat, threatening to rise to his face. 'They suit you,' he adds, gaze locking with Illya's for a little too long.

'Thanks.' Illya bites his lip, and looks away. 

'Where's Gaby?' Napoleon asks, hoping to shift the atmosphere to safer ground. He looks around the room, but doesn't see her. 

'She had to go home.'

Napoleon frowns. 'And she left you here, all alone, in the corner no less?'

The edge of Illya's mouth quirks. 'I don't mind.'

'You don't belong in the corner, Illya.' Napoleon surprises himself with his words – too serious, too revealing – unsure where they came from. Illya shoots him a strange look and Napoleon clears his throat, face hot. 'I mean, don't want all my teaching skills going to waste, do we?'

'Are you asking me to dance?' Illya dead-pans.

Napoleon laughs, face still warm and thinks about how he wishes he could, imagines being in Illya's strong embrace, spinning around the floor for all to see. Imagines asking for more than just a dance and this tentative friendship. He shakes off the thought and nods to the dance floor. 'That would cause quite the stir, even here.' 

Amusement sparkles in Illya's eyes but he says nothing else. They stare at each other, again, and, for one moment, Napoleon wonders if this attraction isn't as one-sided as he has assumed.

But the moment is broken as Victoria glides over, blonde hair coiffed into bouncing curls, black and white striped dress stark against her pale skin. 'There you are, Napoleon!' She turns to Illya and her eyes widen. 'Illya? My goodness, you look handsome.'

'Thank-you.' Napoleon can guess Victoria isn't the first woman to tell him so, tonight.

'I hope Napoleon is playing nice,' she says, sending Napoleon a warning look. He can't blame her – he certainly hadn't been playing nice the first night he met Illya, after all – but, still, his eyes narrow as he says, 'I always do.'

Victoria, predictably, tuts at him, but he doesn't expect Illya to say 'I'm making sure he behaves' eliciting a laugh from the woman. 'I came over to find Napoleon for another dance, but now I insist you dance with me.'

Before he can answer, Victoria grabs Illya's hand, and he's pulled away, looking back at Napoleon over his shoulder trying to convey something Napoleon can't quite decipher. An apology, perhaps? 

Napoleon sighs and leans against the wall. Bass reverberates through the thin timber, vibrating against Napoleon's back, into his chest, seeming to beat in time with his heart. He feels the loss of Illya's company keenly, already, though it doesn't stop him from sparing a moment to admire the cut of the new suit hugging the blond's impressive form as he takes Victoria in his arms.

The dancing lessons with Napoleon have clearly paid off, the improvement in Illya's skill evident as he lindy hops with ease. Soon, there will be no reason for more lessons and Napoleon mourns the loss of their time alone, already.

*

The chill night air is bracing after the close atmosphere inside the warehouse. A shiver runs through Illya, and he hugs his arms around himself, looking forward to getting home to bed, yet also not wanting this night to end. Beside him, Napoleon walks arm in arm with Victoria, several of their other friends ahead of them, thick soled shoes quiet on the concrete. Illya almost feels at home.

He casts sidelong glances at Napoleon as they walk, street lamps overhead bathing him in warm yellow light. Napoleon is almost too beautiful to look at, laughing and carefree, and Illya has to cough to disguise the catch in his breath. Once or twice, Illya catches the other man looking back at him and his heart skips, a pleasant warmth flooding his chest. When he remembers Napoleon telling him he doesn't belong in the corner, the warmth bursts into hot flames.

Before long they run into another group of people their age, sporting sensible, severe clothes. Illya's stomach drops. 

A gaze lands on Illya, heavy and accusatory. 'Illya?'

Cold air fills Illya's lungs as he takes in a deep breath. 'Hello, Oleg.' His voice is steadier than his nerves.

'What are you doing? Why are you dressed like this?' Oleg's usual composure seems to have cracked in the wake of his disbelief.

'I'm with my friends,' says Illya with as much conviction as he can muster. It's more than he ever had with the _Komsomol_.

'Friends? These deviants?' Oleg steps forward, but the girl beside him grabs his arm, stopping him from whatever he may have done.

Napoleon steps in front of Illya, arms crossed. 'Clearly better friends than you,' he says, steel in his voice. It sends a not unpleasant shiver through Illya.

Oleg merely sneers again, his look of disgust matched equally by his comrades, and spits 'you're a traitor' as he steps around Illya, pushing Napoleon aside in his wake, both groups moving on in mutual – if begrudging – silence.

Illya's legs shake, heart hammering hard against his ribcage. The pavement feels unsteady beneath his feet, but he forces himself to move on, one step at a time, breathing deeply.

Cars whoosh by, a tram rattles along, and Illya's new friends chatter around him, but Illya stays silent, troubled by the encounter with his erstwhile comrades. There is no going back, now, it seems.

'Are you OK, Illya?' Victoria asks, but her voice sounds far away. He nods, distracted by the thoughts swirling in his head, the guilt roiling in his stomach, and the tiny spark of hope that ignites as Napoleon stays close by his side, arm brushing against his every few steps.

A few members break off, along the way, saying their goodbyes, leaving Illya with Napoleon, Victoria and Alexander, with the floppy hair. They come to a stop a block from the train station.

'Well, I'd better be going.' Illya gestures behind him, in the direction of his apartment. He slips his hands into his pockets. 'Thank-you for everything, tonight.' His eyes slide to Napoleon, who is biting his lip, brow furrowed.

'You're not walking home alone, are you?' asks Victoria, concern evident in her smooth voice.

Before Illya can answer that, yes, he was going to, Napoleon says, 'I'll walk home with you.'

Illya's heart flutters but he frowns. 'You live in the opposite direction.'

Looking over his shoulder, Napoleon seems to consider this, but he turns back to Illya, blue eyes determined. He squares his shoulders. 'I'm walking you home.'

Illya, taken aback by Napoleon's forceful tone, simply says, 'OK.' He turns to the others. 'Will you be all right?'

Victoria gestures to Alexander and says, 'We're practically neighbours. We'll be fine.' She kisses Napoleon on the cheek and surprises Illya when she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, too. 

'See you both soon,' she says, echoed by Alexander, who gives a small wave. The pair walk off, and Illya is alone, again, with Napoleon. Illya finds he feels much warmer with Napoleon walking by his side.

*

The streets are all but empty as Napoleon and Illya walk toward the communal apartment where Illya lives. Above them, stars wink in the clear dark sky, no clouds out to block their light. Napoleon looks over at Illya – beautiful, strong, clever – and yearning pulses through his entire being. He looks down at the pavement and sighs.

'Are you OK?' Illya asks, brow furrowed.

Napoleon huffs out a laugh. 'I should be asking you that.'

Illya shrugs. 'I am fine.'

Napoleon isn't convinced – he sees the tremble in Illya's hands before he shoves them in his pockets – but doesn't say anything. A companionable silence stretches between them, and, though their pace is slow, soon they arrive at their destination.

They come to a standstill by a door in the middle of the utilitarian building. Illya inclines his head toward it. 'This is me.' Hands still in his pockets, Illya rocks back on his heels. 'Thank-you. For walking with me.'

'That's OK.' Napoleon wants to say that, above any concern, he only wanted to spend more time with Illya but, instead, he says, 'We always try to go in pairs, you know. Safer.'

Illya nods. 'Well, thank-you, still.' He looks off to the side, briefly, then turns back. 

Moonlight illuminates Illya's hair, lending him an ethereal glow, as Napoleon looks up at him. His eyes are dark in the silvery light, inscrutable. The space between the two men seems to have shrunk without Napoleon realising, so that he can almost feel Illya's breath as he exhales, misting in the frigid air. 

_A June night, the moonlight and you_ , Napoleon thinks and then he is tilting his chin up, pressing his lips to Illya's. They are soft and warm and not moving at all. Napoleon's stomach plummets. He jerks away, mutters 'Right, sorry, good night', and turns on his heel. His hasty retreat breaks into a run, his ears ringing and heart pounding. He doesn't dare even a glance back.

His steps slow to a brisk walk but he doesn't stop moving until he gets home, legs burning and lungs aching. As brave as he can be, he couldn't bear to see Illya's face after that, rejection clear in the other man's silence and stillness. Napoleon braces himself on one arm against the wall, gasping, a heavy weight settling in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Whew, thanks for reading! I really appreciate the comments, kudos, etc., I've got on this so far. I think there will be 2 or 3 more chapters to finish this off. :)
> 
> -'You don't belong in the corner Illya.' is the closest I could get to 'Nobody puts Illya in the corner' (or better yet 'Nobody puts Peril in the corner'). But I just had to get the reference in there, somewhere!
> 
> -In the movie, _Stilyagi_ , Mels is styling his hair and I've always assumed he dips his comb into sugared water as plain ol' water wouldn't hold the style and I know a lot of people used to (and still do) make hairspray out of sugar and water. 
> 
> - _A June night, the moonlight and you_ is from the song 'June Night' which was popularised by Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra, I believe.
> 
> -Oh, and Alexander (who is not significant in the story but I needed some extra people) is Waverly, not Vinciguerra.
> 
> EDIT (23/11/2016): I added a few sentences in because I'm never satisfied:
> 
> He ignores the small part of him that hopes he will impress Napoleon, and ducks down to cast a scrutinising eye over his efforts.  
> Napoleon is almost too beautiful to look at, laughing and carefree, and Illya has to cough to disguise the catch in his breath.  
> When he remembers Napoleon telling him he doesn't belong in the corner, the warmth bursts into hot flames.  
> It sends a not unpleasant shiver through Illya.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be up sooner but I took a detour from my initial plans!

Illya mournfully pokes at his kasha, stomach turning at the thought of eating. Children play in the courtyard outside the open window, shrieks and giggles filtering in, their joy rankling, at odds with Illya's mood. 

That kiss, he thinks, the ghost of Napoleon's lips still lingering on his. It feels like a dream, or, more aptly, a nightmare. The misery on Napoleon’s face before he’d turned and run had haunted Illya all night, kept him from sleep.

He sighs and leans his head on his hand, elbow slipping along the wooden table as he slumps. The peeling lacquer catches on his sleeve. Illya idly thinks that he should strip the table down, re-varnish it one day. It's too large for the small room - cramped into the centre surrounded by mismatched furniture and faded wallpaper, a remnant from a forgotten childhood - but his mother won't part with it. 

Picking at the lacquer with a thumbnail, a groan escapes him, unbidden. He should have gone after Napoleon, he thinks, trying to swallow some of his breakfast against the lump in his throat, kissed him back. Done something.

In his most private moments, Illya had sometimes dreamed of kissing Napoleon, let his longing whisk him away to a place where such a thing was possible. But he had never thought Napoleon could return his desires. Holding Napoleon as he taught Illya to dance, their conversations, stolen smiles, Illya had thought this was all he could ever have. Now, he may not even have that.

'You are unhappy again, Illyusha?' His mother asks as she bustles into the room. Her blonde hair, threaded with silver, is pulled back into tight braids bundled at the nape of her neck, her blue dress simple and worn, made by her own clever hands.

Illya shrugs. His mother hovers, seems to waver uncharacteristically before she asks, 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Illya sets his spoon down, bites his lip. 'It was only a...misunderstanding with a friend'

'Maybe you should talk to this friend?' His mother sits across from him, squeezes his hand. Her blue eyes regard him warmly, but he sees worry in them.

Illya averts his gaze, his kasha suddenly intensely interesting. 'I don't think they'd want to see me.'

Curtains flap in the breeze and his mother moves to secure them with a bow around each. She returns to Illya and runs her hand through his hair, gently, leans down to press her cheek to his. 'You won't know unless you try.' 

Illya leans into his mother's warmth and nods, knowing she is right. But he's not sure if he is brave enough.

*

A sharp rap at the door startles Illya from his book, sending him reeling back into reality. He blinks and sets the book aside, then signals to his mother that he'll get the door. Gaby is on the other side, wearing pink and blue and a small smile. Her smile falls into a frown.

'Why aren't you dressed? I thought you were coming, tonight,' she asks, stepping around Illya and into the apartment. The distinct scent of borscht wafts in and Illya shuts the door firmly against it, the thought of food still nauseating.

He clears his throat. 'I wasn't sure...' 

Behind him his mother clucks and says, 'You should go. You work so hard, you need some fun.'

'I agree, Mrs Kuryakin.' There is a conspiratorial gleam in Gaby's eye, though she stands with hands clasped behind her back, swinging on her feet, the very picture of innocence.

Illya looks between the two women, regarding him with determination, and sighs, throwing his hands up. They won't back down and he is secretly glad of it. 'OK, I will go.'

'Good,' says his mother, needles clacking in her small hands as she knits. 'Go get dressed. I'll talk with Gaby.'

The sound of his mother chatting merrily with Gaby seeps through the thin makeshift wall that divides Illya's room from the main one. It brings a smile to his face as he dresses. He is ready in minimal time, anxiety and anticipation dancing through his veins, and then he joins his mother and Gaby, again. They tell him, as they had the night before, how handsome he looks in these clothes and Illya shyly thanks them.

Farewelled with a kiss each from his mother, Gaby and Illya leave the sanctuary of the apartment, and stroll arm in arm into the cool evening, ignoring snide remarks and unkind stares.

Illya is quiet as they walk, responding only with distracted 'hmm's, mind racing with the possibilities of seeing Napoleon again. Beside him, Gaby huffs. 'Are you actually listening?'

Illya shakes himself, gaze sliding to Gaby, who is looking up at him, more fond than annoyed. 'Sorry, I was thinking.'

'I said that Victoria tells me you're getting along better with Napoleon.' A small, pleased smille tugs at Gaby's mouth.

Blood tingles unpleasantly in Illya's fingers, along his arms, up to heat his face and tighten his throat. He doesn't know what to say, but Gaby continues, 'I'm glad. He can be arrogant, but he's a good friend.'

A woman wearing a navy coat and a scowl rushes past, narrowly avoiding knocking into Illya. He sidesteps absently, once again thinking he may never know just how good a friend Napoleon could be.

'Is everything OK?'

Concern tinges Gaby's voice and, though Illya's troubled mind could use a confidant, he lies and says, 'Yes, of course. Everything is fine.' 

Illya doubts that he sounds convincing, and Gaby gives him a dubious look as she says, 'If you say so,' but they are at their destination and the time for talking is over as they cross the threshold.

Once again, the air is pulsating with jazz, but tonight it doesn't thrill Illya the way it has before. His mind is too occupied with Napoleon to let the music truly soak into him. Still, he can't suppress the pleased shiver at the keening saxophone as they make their way further inside. 

There is no sign of Napoleon, but he spots Victoria and Alexander standing together, and he follows Gaby as she weaves through the crowd toward them.

Victoria greets him with a kiss on the cheek and Alexander shakes his hand, but their warm greeting does little to dispel the dark feeling stirring within him. 

'Napoleon isn't here tonight?' He asks, craning his neck to look around the crowd once more.

A girl comes sliding along the floor, legs kicking in the air, her partner following, clapping his hands with the beat of the song. The group step aside as he picks her up and they whirl away, again. Victoria turns to Illya and shakes her head, ponytail swishing. 'No, he said he wasn't well.'

Gaby frowns. 'That's not like him – remember that time he had the flu and still came? We had to drag him out and march him home so he wouldn't infect everyone.'

Victoria laughs at the memory, and the two women reminisce, Alexander occasionally piping up, their voices drowned out by the ringing in Illya's ears. Napoleon must be avoiding him, he thinks. Illya's heart sinks but he can't blame the other man. Does Napoleon think Illya hates him? That he will tell everyone? That's what Illya would think, or worse, if it were the other way around.

Illya leans back against the wall, beaded with condensation, and crosses his arms. He wishes he'd stayed home, finished his book, let his mother fuss over him. The music is too loud, tonight, the air too close. 

Still, he dances with Victoria and Gaby in turn, their wide skirts twirling like spinning tops, tries to forget Napoleon and let himself be caught up in the rhythm. But it is to no avail. The feel of Napoleon's lips on his lingers still and, before long, he slips away without saying goodbye. As he emerges into the frigid night, he hesitates, thinking he may go to Napoleon's house, explain everything. But it is getting late and his mind is weary, so he turns and heads for home. For a moment, he worries there may be another run-in with Oleg but he is in luck, tonight, and makes it home unscathed.

As he slides into bed, the vision of Napoleon, pale in the moonlight, wide-eyed and wretched, swims before him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, and wills himself to sleep.

*

A car rumbles past, fumes billowing white-grey from its exhaust in the cool air as Napoleon stands across the road from the club, hands deep in his pockets. He watches the building with a growing feeling of dread. Victoria had called him earlier, asking if they could go in together, but he feigned illness, not wanting to face Illya, or anyone else, after his foolish actions the night before. 

He had grown restless, though, too caught up in his mind, and after knocking back two glasses of vodka, he reasoned that it would only get harder the longer he stayed away. But now, standing on jelly legs, heart pumping fast, he can't bring himself to cross the road and go inside. 

The club door swings open, light and music spilling out, a shadowed figure following soon after. It is Illya, his tall frame unmistakable, and the urge to yell out, follow after him, surges through Napoleon. He tamps it down, remembering the previous night, that Illya wouldn't want to see him.

Still, he watches Illya's figure retreat, the elegant curve of his spine, hair glowing gold under the street-lamps, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Napoleon sighs and, tucking his scarf into his coat, turns and walks back home. He was wrong to come here. Booming swing, friendly faces, laughter and dancing - his usual solace - are not what he needs, right now. Tonight he craves Duke Ellington with the lights out and a glass of vodka, cold in his too hot hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, the boys are angsting pretty hard in this one. Hope I didn't get too carried away, as I tend to, when it comes to angst. Anyway, sorry, folks! It'll get better soon, I promise.
> 
> I'm actually a little ahead, this time, so I'm hoping the next chapter will be up very soon. The draft is all written up – just have to edit it. I hate editing.
> 
> I had to google Russian breakfast foods for this chapter. Ha. (Now I know that in Russia, [kasha is basically any porridge](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kasha)).
> 
> -
> 
> I've also gone back to previous chapters and added a few little phrases in that I felt clarified some things that may have been unclear. I've indicated in the notes of those chapters what I've done. Chapter three has had the most done – the essential plot points are the same but I tightened up the prose and added a little more conversation between Illya and Napoleon in it. 
> 
> I have kept a copy of the first four chapters as they were originally published, though, should anyone prefer that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this a lot quicker than I thought I would! There might be one more update this year, but if not, thanks so much to everyone who's read my fic this year! It's meant a lot to me that so many of you have enjoyed it :)

Clouds shine pink and yellow as the sun makes its descent, a chill evening breeze whistles along the street. Illya's shoes beat a frantic tattoo on the stone as he paces a few yards from Napoleon's door, butterflies raging in his stomach. 

Before the kiss, he and Napoleon had planned to meet today for another lesson. Illya knew it was mostly unnecessary, that his dancing had progressed enough, but, today, he is glad of the excuse to come here. Without it, he may never have come, though he needs to apologise, to explain to the other man. Finally tell him how he feels. If only he can work up the courage to knock.

He swallows against the tightness in his throat and paces back to the door, a new determination steeling his limbs. Small birds hop along, nearby, pecking at the ground every few hops. They scatter, wings fluttering, as his heavy steps disturb them.

He knocks, a little too hard, wincing at the noise in the quiet street and waits. His heart throbs in his ears. Moments later the door swings open, and Napoleon stands before him, pale faced and wide eyed. Illya's heart twists.

'What are you doing here?' Napoleon's voice is hoarse.

Illya's chest tightens. Not the greeting he was hoping for, but he can hardly blame Napoleon after the other night. 'We had a lesson.'

Surprise flashes across Napoleon's features. 'Oh. I didn't think you'd come.'

Illya shrugs, at a loss for words. 'I can leave?'

Napoleon frowns, looking off to the side. His fingers curl around the edge of the door, white-knuckled. 

The moment stretches out between them and Illya is about to turn and leave when Napoleon sighs. 'No, come in.' He stands aside so Illya can move past him. Napoleon doesn't say anything else, just walks into the living room. Palms damp, face hot, Illya trails behind on shaking legs.

*

'Do you want a drink?' Napoleon's voice is too loud in the otherwise silent room. There is tension in his jaw, along the strong line of his throat as he swallows. 'Never mind, you don't drink, do you?'

Illya shrugs, eyes drifting to Napoleon's open collar, three buttons undone, dark hair showing. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 'Sometimes. A drink would be good, thank-you.'

'Oh.' Napoleon turns to his bar, pouring a measure of vodka each for Illya and himself. Their fingers brush as he hands the glass to Illya, just as they had the other day – was it only three days ago? - but today, Napoleon jerks away. Illya swallows a sigh. 

'Are you feeling better?' Illya asks to break the tension, though he's certain Napoleon had only been avoiding him the previous night. This is confirmed when Napoleon frowns and repeats, 'Better?'

'Victoria said you were unwell, last night.' Illya averts his gaze.

Napoleon takes a sip of his vodka, turns the glass in his hands. 'Ah, yes. I'm better now. Thanks.' Neither mention the lesson that had brought Illya here.

Illya looks around the room - at the shelves crammed with dog-eared books, the photographs on the wall, the plush sofa - as though it's the first time he's been here, anxiety making everything seem new.

'How about some music?' Napoleon stalks to the other side of the room, drops the needle onto a record. Tinkling piano is joined by an earsplitting horn section, but the room still seems too quiet. 'I got some new records the other day. This one's good. Charlie Parker.'

Illya had expected awkward silence, but instead, Napoleon is a flurry of words and action. He barely stops talking and moving after he puts that first song on, never giving Illya a chance to say what he wants. Though, any time there is a lull, the words in Illya's mind, his heart, get stuck in his throat. 

The burn of vodka in his belly, Napoleon's constant movement, the jazz blaring from the tinny phonograph, are dizzying. Illya shakes his head, trying to clear it.

After listening to Napoeon's commentary on the fifth song in a row – 'listen to what he does right here – hear that?' - Illya sets his glass down, a little too hard. Vodka sloshes against the rim. 'Napoleon.'

The other man stops, looks at a point past Illya's head. 'Yes?'

'Can we talk? Please.'

Napoleon quirks an eyebrow. 'Haven't we been talking?'

Illya huffs. 'You've been talking. I've been listening.' Illya takes in a deep breath and, before Napoleon can cut him off, says, 'We need to talk. About the other night.'

'I noticed your dancing is a lot better, probably won't need any more lessons.' Napoleon doesn't meet Illya's eyes, fingers trailing over the edge of a bureau. 

'You know what I mean,' Illya says, harsher than he meant to. The song ends, silence engulfing the room.

Napoleon blanches. 'Right. I was hoping we could pretend that didn't happen.'

'Sorry,' Illya says, softer, 'I just wanted to-'

Again, Napoleon cuts him off, desperate. 'Look, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking...I should never-'

Illya raises a palm, silencing him. 'Don't say that.'

Napoleon looks at him, now, finally. 'Pardon?'

'You don't need to apologise,' Illya says. At Napoleon's confusion, he adds, 'I should be the one doing that.'

Napoleon runs a hand through his hair. 'But you didn't do anything.'

Illya sighs. 'Exactly.'

'I don't...' Napoleon trails off, floundering. 

'I'm sorry because I didn't kiss you back. I was scared.' Illya's voice softens almost to a whisper, but from the look on Napoleon's face he can tell he was heard.

'You don't seem the type to scare easily,' Napoleon says, something like hope in his quavering voice. He pushes off the bureau he has been leaning against and steps closer.

Illya huffs out a rueful laugh. 'Me? I'm scared of everything.'

There is the hint of a smile around Napoleon's mouth. It seems months since Illya has seen him smile. 'I don't believe you. You're here now, aren't you?'

Yes, Illya thinks, I am, and decides it's time to show that he's braver than he thought himself to be. He takes Napoleon's face gently in his hands. Napoleon blinks up at him, still a little uncertain, and then Illya leans in and kisses him, gentle, tentative. 

'Please tell me this is still what you want,' says Illya, lips brushing against Napoleon's as he speaks, not daring to move too far away.

Napoleon only nods, sliding his hands around Illya's neck, and brings him down for another kiss, deeper, more passionate. Chests touching, Illya's hands bunch in Napoleon's shirt at his waist, urging the other man forward, against him.

They pull away after some time, panting, still close in their embrace. Napoleon's lips are shiny with spit, his cheeks flushed. He is beautiful.

'Wow,' says Napoleon, thumb trailing along Illya's lower lip. 'That was some kiss.'

Illya smiles, and buries his face in Napoleon's neck, hugging the other man to him. He breathes in deeply, the other man's scent – cologne, sweat – comforting and heady. Napoleon hugs back, tightly, crushing. Long moments pass before Napoleon pulls away, smiling properly, now. He chuckles.

Illya's stomach flips. 'What?' 

'You know, I thought you liked Gaby.' Napoleon looks sheepish, but happy.

Illya lets out a soft laugh. 'No. Not that way, at least. I don't like any girls that way.'

Napoleon's eyes widen. 'Oh.'

'Dance with me?' Illya whispers, and kisses Napoleon's cheek.

Napoleon brushes Illya's hair back, hand lingering, and nods. 'Yeah, of course.'

*

The dulcet trumpet of Harry James filters out of the phonograph, and Napoleon takes a moment to appreciate the blissful look on Illya's face, before he holds out his hand. Illya pulls Napoleon to him, with more confidence than Napoleon had expected, and kisses him again, deeply. Napoleon teases Illya's lips open and he moans as their tongues meet.

They sway in time with the sensual tune, still kissing, arms twined around each other. Napoleon reaches up to cup Illya's cheek. 'Beautiful,' he murmurs and Illya gives him that small, pleased smile Napoleon is coming to know better than he thought he ever would.

Illya spins them around, hands drifting to the small of Napoleon's back, pressing, pushing their bodies even closer. His eyes are dark, and as his hips swivel Napoleon can feel how the dancing, their closeness and kissing, is affecting Illya. 

'Sorry', Illya says, soft, blushing.

'It's OK,' says Napoleon, grinning. He pushes a leg between Illya's, kisses his jaw, down his neck. 'It's more than OK.'

Illya moans as Napoleon's teeth graze over his Adam's apple but he soon loosens his grip, pulls away a little. 

'Everything all right?' asks Napoleon.

Illya looks down, away from Napoleon's gaze. 'Yes, just, I've never...' 

Napoleon wants to ask if Illya means he's never with a boy, or never at all, wants to say he's never been with another boy, himself, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, 'That's OK. We can just dance.'

Illya looks up, then. 'No, I want to.'

Electricity and anticipation tingle through Napoleon. 'OK.' 

They dance a little longer, still, kissing, hips pushing against each other. Illya's hand moves to Napoleon's backside, resting there.

Illya squeezes his hand on Napoleon's ass, eliciting a surprised gasp. 'Should we?' he asks, inclining his head toward the sofa. 

Heat pools low in Napoleon's belly as he guides them over, pushes gently so Illya lies down. Napoleon clambers on top, bracing himself over the blond. 'Is this OK?' Illya nods and pulls Napoleon down to kiss him, again, threading his fingers through Napoleon's hair.

Napoleon moves his hand in between them and undoes Illya's pants, pushing them down, with his underwear, to his thighs, breaking from the kiss. Illya's eyes shut and he bites his lip as Napoleon wraps his hand around his cock. Napoleon kisses his neck, licks over his racing pulse, as he moves his hand in time with the music.

'Wait,' says Illya, a hand on Napoleon's shoulder. 

Napoleon stops and Illya moves his hands to Napoleon's waistband, asks 'Can I?' and, when Napoleon breathes out an emphatic 'yes', undoes Napoleon's pants, pushes them away as Napoleon had done with his. 

Illya's face is flushed, his pupil's blown wide, impossibly beautiful beneath Napoleon. There is still an edge of shyness in his movements as he palms Napoleon's ass, hooks his leg around Napoleon's knee, and tilts his hips up. But there is a surprising confidence, too, that Napoleon finds incredibly sexy. His own hips stutter as Illya's fingers creep inwards over his backside.

There is a hint of a smirk on Illya's face but then they are kissing again, hips pushing against each other, and all he can think of is Illya's hands pushing under his shirt, hot all over him. He kisses along Illya's jaw, as he shifts his hips so their cocks slide together. Illya gasps, thrusting up.

The music plays on in the background but Napoleon's senses narrow to the feel of Illya's cock sliding against his, the sounds they both make, the scent of sweat and sex between them, the other man's elegant hands on his body the only thing grounding him.

They don't last long, Napoleon holding himself above Illya with one trembling arm, Illya gripping Napoleon's waist, his ass, leg still hooked around his knee, heel digging into Napoleon's calf. 

Illya comes gasping Napoleon's name, and Napoleon follows soon after, pressing his face against Illya's cheek, chest heaving and heart pounding.

When he looks up, Illya is regarding him, brow furrowed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 'Was that OK?'

'It was amazing,' Napoleon says, pressing a lazy kiss to Illya's jaw. He leans in close and whispers, 'you're amazing.'

Illya's only response is a small smile and to snake his arm around Napoleon's waist, hugging the other man to him as much as he can on the sofa. Neither seems to care about the mess between them.

Napoleon rests his head on Illya's chest, the steady thrum of Illya's heart beneath him, syncopated with the rhythm of the song. Sated, and in awe to be in Illya's arms, he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep, I hope the wait for the get together was worth it! (I was going to wait until the weekend to post this but I got impatient...)
> 
> Once again, I've referenced one of my favourite quotes from _Dirty Dancing_. This time it's the 'Me? I'm scared of everything' from Baby's wonderful dialogue with Johnny in his cabin. The whole quote:  
>  _Me? I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of what I saw, I'm scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you._
> 
> And [this is the song they're listening to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGFyThctU6c), while they dance (and more).
> 
> Come find me on tumblr if you want :) <http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/>
> 
> (Un-beta'd as usual, so I am happy for spelling errors to be pointed out :))


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're finally done! Thanks for the comments and kudos along the way. Sorry it took so long to finish. :) I got caught up in another ship. Eep.
> 
> Un-beta'd, as per usual.

Illya looks down on the forum of grey clad youth from where he stands at the top of the stairs. The boys all have their cropped hair combed back neatly, the girls' long hair styled into braids or buns. Their clothes are varying shades of grey, slightly different styles; there is still room for some individuality among uniformity. Illya feels like a flashing neon sign in his stilyagi gear, but he braces himself and, head held high, takes a step down toward the lectern where Oleg stands. 

Oleg looks up, face hard, his steely gaze firm on Illya. The blond keeps his steps slow and deliberate, a counter-rhythm to the erratic beat of his heart.

'Today he dances jazz, but tomorrow he will sell his homeland,' says Oleg, gesturing toward Illya with a sweeping hand, the other curled over the edge of the lectern. Everyone turns as one to stare as Illya makes his descent, blood roaring in his ears. 'You are a disgrace,' Oleg hisses. Illya swallows, tries to maintain an outward image of calm, but feels his face heat, from anger or shame he can't be sure.

When Illya gets to the lectern he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded card, blood red against his pale, shaking fingers. 'I was hoping we could still be friends. We're no better than each other, Oleg. Just different. But you can't see that.' Illya slaps the card down, the sound echoing through the forum. 

Oleg places his hand over Illya's before he can pull it away. 'You will regret this, Kuryakin,' he says, voice low. 

Illya jerks his hand away. Silent, he turns and walks back up the stairs and out of the room, hundreds of accusatory eyes heavy on his back. Their weight doesn't leave even as he walks out of the building.

*  
'Everything all right?' Napoleon asks, pushing his fingers through Illya's hair. They are sitting, side by side, on Napoleon's sofa, ankles hooked together. A record spins on the phonograph, filling the silence between them. It's almost perfect, but Illya has seemed troubled, distant, since he arrived. The blond leans into Napoleon's hand as he nods. 'Yes. Well...'

'Well, what?' Napoleon asks, gently he hopes, places a soft kiss on Illya's jaw. He briefly inhales the other man's scent, clean, soapy and a little spicy.

Illya's eyes close and he sighs. 'I handed in my komsomol card.'

'Oh.' Napoleon isn't sure what to say to that. He had assumed that Illya had parted ways with his former comrades, but didn't think he would make such a bold statement. Pride swells in his chest.

'It was right,' Illya continues, 'But it feels strange.'

Napoleon hums in agreement, support. 'I didn't even know you could do that.'

Illya shrugs. 'I don't think I want to talk about it.'

'That's OK,' says Napoleon and is about to say something else, tell Illya he's proud of him, but then Illya is kissing him and his words are forgotten as their tongues meet. Illya pushes him down into the sofa, the cushions soft below him as Illya's hands are firm on his shoulders, much more sure but no less sweet than he was yesterday. Napoleon can hardly believe it was only a day ago, but then the thought slides from his mind as Illya's hands slide under his shirt, fingers hot and searching.

Napoleon finds he likes the weight of Illya on top of him as they kiss, likes Illya's hands gripping his waist tight, likes Illya in control. He has spared more than several thoughts for the specifics of what he wants to do with Illya, all of them involving a lot less clothes and a lot more touching. He wonders if Illya has thought about it, too, what he wants to do with, do to Napoleon. With Illya kissing his neck, in just the right spot, heat shooting through him as teeth drag against his pulse, he thinks he would let the other man do absolutely anything he wants to.

They kiss, hands roaming over heated, clothed skin for what feels like hours, but when Illya's thigh nudges his erection, Napoleon pulls away, suddenly remembering where they're meant to be.

'We should stop if we ever want to go to the dance, tonight.' Illya nods. As Napoleon gazes up into Illya's eyes, pupils blown wide, he's not sure why he said that. The dance is not important. Kissing Illya is all that matters, and so he twines his hands around Illya's neck, brings him down for another kiss.

The record finishes, the needle hissing and bumping over the empty space at the end, the only sound in the room besides their wet, shallow breaths, the slick push of their mouths against each other. Napoleon nips at Illya's bottom lip, eliciting a moan from the man above him, and he smirks, satisfied, until Illya pushes his thigh against his erection, purposeful now, and Napoleon throws his head back. Illya takes the opportunity to kiss along Napoleon's neck, up to his jaw. The dance is long forgotten as Illya moves up to capture his lips, again, and Napoleon distantly thinks he could do this forever, pushing his hands under Illya's shirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his waist.

This time it is Illya who stops, rests his forehead against Napoleon's for long moments, their damp breaths mingling between them. 'We can be a little late, can't we?' He asks, opening Napoleon's trousers and moving down the length of his body. Napoleon grabs onto his shoulders. Illya looks up at Napoleon, biting his lip, achingly close to his cock and when Napoleon nods, dazed, he slides his mouth over him. He is uncertain and a little clumsy but it's Illya and so it is perfect. 

'Yeah, we can be, oh...' Napoleon breaks off as Illya takes him in further, eyes fluttering shut at the blissful, wet heat around him. 'We can be a little late.'

*

The old warehouse is full to bursting, vibrating with jazz and brightly coloured youths, when Napoleon and Illya arrive, joining Victoria and Gaby by the makeshift bar. Illya is still buzzing from his earlier encounter with Napoleon, hopes his cheeks aren't too flushed, lips not too swollen. It is surreal that he is allowed to touch Napoleon that way, that Napoleon could want him just as desperately. His jaw aches and he blushes, cheeks burning, when he remembers the weight of Napoleon's cock in his mouth. Illya has the feeling Napoleon knows exactly what he is thinking when the other man catches his eye and winks. He clears his throat and grabs a drink, Napoleon's gaze burning into his neck.

Their little group stands by the edge of the dance-floor, chatting and laughing, coloured lights washing over them, until Victoria claims Napoleon for a dance, leaving Illya and Gaby alone. Their silence is companionable until Gaby breaks it, saying, 'I see you and Napoleon are getting on well.' Her dark eyes slide up to Illya, a knowing glint in them. 'You seem very...close.'

Illya blanches. Does Gaby know? Has he been so obvious?

'Don't worry,' she says, with a small, apologetic smile. She squeezes his hand, her palm warm against his. 'I'm glad. If you're happy?'

Illya nods, mutely, still unable to find words. Gaby doesn't seem to mind his silence and says, 'Good,' perfunctorily and then turns her attention to the dance floor, tapping her feet and swaying her hips with the tune blaring from the band onstage. Despite Gaby's reassurance, Illya's pulse is racing faster than the slap of the double bass; the dancers before him become a dizzying blur. Still, there is relief in someone else knowing, even though it's so new with him and Napoleon, and comfort in Gaby's easy acceptance. His heart begins to slow and he takes a sip of his drink, the liquid cool in his tight throat.

Soon Napoleon and Victoria rejoin them, both red faced and grinning. Illya's heart skips when Napoleon's eyes meet his. Napoleon's grin turns salacious and Illya rolls his eyes but can't hide his own smile in return.

'This is my favourite song,' says Victoria and grabs Illya's hand, leading him out to the dance floor. Already dizzied from handing in his card, kissing Napoleon, and talking with Gaby, he loses his footing a few times, but soon settles into the rhythm. Victoria smiles warmly at him. 'I'm glad Gaby convinced you to join us that first night.' Illya smiles back, looks to Napoleon, standing by the edge of the floor, and says, 'I'm glad, too.'

*

'You'd better treat him well, Solo.' Gaby's brown eyes are fierce as she looks up at him.

Napoleon's heart stutters. 'What? Who?'

Gaby rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. 'You know perfectly well who, and what, I mean.' She nods her head out toward where Illya and Victoria are dancing, two fair-haired visions twirling under the red and blue and green lights. 

Napoleon gulps his drink, barely tasting it, and sets the glass down on the table behind him. 'Of course. We're good friends. We all are, right?'

Gaby sighs. 'Yes, but that's not what I meant.'

'Whatever you think...it's between me and Illya.'

Gaby's expression softens and she eyes him thoughtfully. 'I'm sorry. You're both my friends and I just want you to be happy.' She links her arm through his and doesn't say anything else.

Napoleon, at a loss for one of his usual smart remarks, just says, 'Thank-you', feeling awkward. Gaby shrugs and smiles. 'Shall we dance?'

He nods, and takes her hand, happy for the chance to lose himself in the music, again.

Napoleon swings Gaby out, letting his muscle memory do all the work, as his mind goes back over their brief, but intense, conversation. Napoleon had never expected Gaby to be anything less than understanding, not really, when she eventually found out. He just hadn't thought she'd find out so soon. Maybe it's for the best, he thinks, pulling her back to him and turning them around. 

But before he can ponder that further, the room erupts into chaos. Everyone is shouting, running for the exits, instruments clanging onto the stage as the band abandon them. Grey clad youths – Komsomol, Napoleon notes, blood heating – have burst in, disrupting the festivities with their stern glares and the unkind words they shout.

Napoleon tucks Gaby behind him and frantically scans the crowd for Illya. He spots him on the other side of the room, Victoria by his side, facing down the man they ran into the other night. Oleg, that's his name. Unlike the others, who are trying to catch as many stilyagi as they can, cutting stockings and ties and even hair, Oleg is focussed solely on Illya, who is doing his best to keep calm, hands held up in a placating gesture. Victoria tugs on his arm, but Illya motions for her to leave and she does, albeit reluctantly, dodging other Komsomol members on her way out. Napoleon can only hope she makes it to safety.

Napoleon turns to Gaby and tells her to leave, too, but she shakes her head and slides her hand into his. As they make their way through the turmoil, Oleg shoves Illya and Napoleon's blood pounds faster in his veins.

He grips Gaby's hand tighter and she squeezes back. They make it to Illya just as Oleg produces a pair of scissors and neatly cuts Illya's tie, the blond's face morphing into rage. Illya shoves Oleg but, before he can do anything else, Napoleon slips his hand out of Gaby's and punches Oleg squarely in the face. Everyone around them is stunned and Napoleon takes the opportunity to grab Illya and Gaby and make a run for it. 

Angry shouts follow the trio from the warehouse but they are drowned out by the thundering of Napoleon's heart, the roaring of his blood, and his heaving breaths. He is still holding on to Gaby and Illya's hands as their legs pump, carrying them through the streets until he is certain they have shaken their pursuers. He stops and Gaby and Illya stumble beside him, no longer propelled by his momentum.

They are all gasping for breath, eyes wide and faces shining with sweat.

'Well, that was not how I expected the night to go,' says Napoleon, eyes closed, leaning back against a wall. They are in a deserted alcove, as safe as they can be, all things considered.

'Me either,' says Gaby, brushing down her rumpled, red skirt.

Illya is silent, but nods, eyes still wide. His breath is shallow and Napoleon realises it's not just from running. He moves beside the taller man, who has his hands braced on his thighs, bent over as he hyperventilates, and rests a hand on his back. 'Just breathe, Illya.' Illya nods, again, gulping, but his breaths start to slow, at least. 'OK?'

'No,' says Illya, 'but thank-you.' He casts his eyes down. 'I'm sorry. This was my fault.'

Gaby waves her hand. 'Raids always happen, Illya. It's fine.'

'Oleg said I'd regret handing in my card, earlier. This time it was out of spite.'

'That's still not your fault,' says Napoleon, throwing an arm around Illya's dejected shoulders. Illya leans into his side, slides down a little so he can rest his head on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon presses a kiss to his hair and finds Gaby giving him a small, soft smile. He reaches out his free arm to her, beckoning for her to curl against his other side.

The three of them stay huddled together in a companionable silence, until eventually, Gaby pulls away and says, 'It's very late. My father will be worried.'

Napoleon nods and Illya says, 'We'll walk you home,' reaching out to take Gaby's hand. Napoleon wishes he could hold Illya's hand, again, like when they were running, but, mind calmer, he knows it wouldn't be a good idea. He takes Gaby's other hand instead.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. 'I'm a proxy hand-holder, now, am I?'

Illya blushes but Napoleon just laughs and they walk off to Gaby's house, hand in hand in hand.

*

After Gaby is safe at home, Napoleon and Illya wander aimlessly, both reluctant to part ways. Their fingers brush occasionally as they walk, the contact comforting, until they find themselves in a small park. It is devoid of other people at this time of night, quiet and still, except for a light breeze rustling the trees. The stars twinkle above, unaware of the turmoil within Illya. He sighs. 

Despite Gaby and Napoleon's reassurances, Illya still feels bad for what happened, tonight. He wouldn't blame either of them if they wanted nothing more to do with him. He's filled with rage and sorrow and frustration. He picks up a brittle branch and throws it, startling Napoleon. Seeing the broken pieces, he deflates, leaning back against a railing, which creaks under his weight. 

Napoleon eyes him and bites his lip, taps his fingers against the rotting wood. 'You know, I'd understand if you didn't want to come back. Or...' he trails off and pauses. Illya's heart skips. 'Or if you didn't want to see me. If it's too much.'

Illya laughs, soft. Napoleon looks hurt. 'I'm sorry. I was thinking something similar.' He takes Napoleon's hand, and holds it to his chest. 'I've been waiting...um. I didn't think – I've never felt like this.' He ducks his head, face hot. Napoleon pulls him closer, and into a tight hug. He whispers in Illya's ear, 'Neither have I.'

Illya shivers and pulls back. 'But maybe we should have stayed home, after all.'

'Well, we can go back, now. I believe I owe you.' Napoleon says, running a finger along the edge of Illya's cut tie, with a lascivious wink.

Illya looks down and his stomach turns, breath coming too fast, again. Napoleon's hands move to his shoulders, a steady firm pressure. 'Hey, we're OK, Illya.'

Illya nods, and looks at his tie. He says, inanely, 'My tie's not.'

Napoleon barks out a laugh, and it starts Illya off, and soon they are breathless, red-faced, holding each other up. Illya's laughter slows to soft chuckles, and his breathing returns to normal. The tension and unease he's felt since they ran from the dance has dissipated in the wake of their laughter. He sighs and rests his head in the crook of Napoleon's neck. A breeze cools his warm cheeks, ruffles his dishevelled hair. Napoleon runs his hand soothingly along his side.

'I've got another tie you can have. It'll suit you better.' Napoleon kisses the top of his head.

'Thank-you.' Illya straightens, leans over and kisses Napoleon, deeply. The faint taste of vodka, from the dance, lingers in Napoleon's mouth; Illya hums against Napoleon's lips as he pulls away and takes Napoleon's hand, kissing his bruised knuckles. 'And thank-you for punching Oleg.'

Napoleon grins. 'It was my pleasure,' he says, swinging their joined hands between them. 'What do you want to do?'

Illya squeezes Napoleon's hand. His heart thumps hard as the shorter man stares up at him, blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. He knows exactly what he wants to do, and slips one hand around Napoleon's waist, takes Napoleon's hand with his other. He pulls Napoleon close, holding him tight, and sways to the beat of an unheard rhythm, the other man following as he moves them in lazy circles. His cheek is pressed to Napoleon's, stubble rasping against his own as he nuzzles the other man's warm skin. He sighs, happy, and whispers, 'I just want to dance with you, Napoleon.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this isn't up to par with the rest of the fic, and I apologise if that's so, but I didn't want to leave it hanging forever. Feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments or [come find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) (it's mostly Colin Farrell over there atm haha).
> 
> Oh, and I [made a soundtrack! I've only got it up at playmoss](https://playmoss.com/en/gothyringwald/playlist/dirty-dancing-moscow-nights-soundtrack), but if anyone wants it up on 8tracks, let me know. 
> 
> So, I've read a bit about the komsomol, mostly the wiki article ([imagining Henry tutting at me, now](http://henrycavilledits.tumblr.com/post/125780649511/youre-using-wikipedia-as-your-source-of)) but I'm not 100% sure how it operated. That is, I'm not sure if they could just hand over their membership card and resign? But that's what the main character seems to do in Stilyagi, so I just went with it.
> 
> 'Today he dances jazz, but tomorrow he will sell his homeland' was apparently like the Stilyagi catchphrase/ideal. I'm sure I read somewhere that it was originally on a propaganda poster or article against them...I think [this is where I first read that](http://www.messynessychic.com/2015/05/25/the-stylehunters-of-soviet-russia/). Anyway, I thought it would be fun to integrate it into the story somehow.
> 
> And thank-you, again, to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos on this (and any other of my) fic(s). It really means a lot! :)


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